Agonal Breath (The Deadseer Chronicles Book 1) (2 page)

Just two feet between us now. Another stride. We were nose to nose.

The blow came out of nowhere.

I mean that quite literally, at least so far as Brandon was concerned. We both felt the air move, disturbed by something that I could plainly see was a hand, but which he couldn’t see at all. This time I
did
flinch. The aftershocks from that slap echoed from the bully’s right cheek.

Brandon staggered backwards, reeling. He was taken by surprise as much as anything. It wasn’t a really
hard
slap, but
boy
was it effective. Eyes widening in shock, he clamped a hand to his face, feeling the flushed skin already turning a deeper shade of red where he had been struck.

“You hit me!” he blurted out, stunned that I would even
dare
. I just shook my head slowly. My hands were still at my side, had never left there. I wiggled my fingers as though to prove it. His buddies knew that I hadn’t hit him either; they’d been watching every detail, eagerly anticipating the spectacle of their fearless leader wiping the floor with the skinny little nerd. They’d also heard the slap, and watched his reaction.

Almost as one, they turned and bolted.

That’s the thing about bullies. When the pack leader gets humbled, the rest of the pack just melts away. Snyder, Langley, and Foster were just like that. Risking a quick glance into the distance past Brandon, I could see them flee through the school parking lot as though all the hounds of hell were snapping at their heels.

Cowards,
I thought. Not that that was news.

“I didn’t hit you, Brandon,” I said evenly. Oh, I had
wanted
to, but I hadn’t. He could have wiped the floor with me, even with one hand tied behind his back…which it wasn’t. “
She
hit you. And believe me, it hurt her more than it hurt
you.
”

Which, judging by the look of sorrowful disappointment on the ghostly old lady’s face, it genuinely had.

Gilda Richardson, Brandon’s grandmother on his mom’s side, was a sweet little old lady. At least, she had sure seemed like one when she stepped up behind him and introduced herself to me just a minute before. She was wearing white sneakers with Velcro straps, beige slacks, a turquoise knitted sweater, and a thin silver necklace that closely matched the color of her hair.

She was also wearing an expression that was trapped somewhere between heartbroken and royally outraged
.

Like most returned spirits, her body was about halfway transparent, and outlined in a blueish shade of energy which ebbed and flowed in accordance with her mood. It always reminded me of the Force ghosts of Obi-Wan and Anakin whenever I saw it. This particular aura was bright and livid, like the electric blue on a neon sign.

“Brandon Michael Monroe, your parents raised you
better
than this! You should be ashamed of yourself, picking on a nice young man like this when you ought to be at home, studying hard to
make
something of yourself!”

He might not have been able to see the outraged old lady jabbing an angry finger at him for emphasis, but Monroe sure knew that
something
was wrong. Like most “normal” people – the polite word that those of us that can see the dead use to describe those of you who are blind to their presence – his body could tell that it was in the presence of something supernatural. It was your typically warm Spring Colorado day, basically tee-shirt weather; but not for Brandon Monroe, because I could see the gooseflesh rising on the backs of both his arms, responding to that weird and unnatural chill that is normally a by-product of a spirit manifesting itself here on our material plane.

“She’s telling you to go home and study,” I repeated some of her less-choice words helpfully. “You know, work hard, make something of yourself, and stop being a bully. Don’t be a douchebag, basically.”

Brandon was shaking his head from side to side, jaw slack, the slap forgotten.

“You’re a liar!” he spat, arms folded defensively. I shook my head right back at him.

“You know what they say about me in school, right? ‘Danny Chill: the creepy kid who says he can talk to the dead?’” I leaned in close, and I’ll be damned if he didn’t actually flinch and take a step back. My voice dropped to a low whisper. “Did you ever stop to think that all that stuff might actually be
true?
”

The look that crossed his face told me that he never had.

“When he was four years old, we took Brandon to church one Sunday morning. He had an…
accident
in his pants, if you take my meaning.” Gilda Richardson sighed, her anger seemingly forgotten for the moment. “He was so upset, the poor boy. I remember, he darn near screamed the place down. It was that big church out on the highway, you know — out on the way towards Lyons.”

I nodded, and felt a sudden out-of-place flash of sympathy for Brandon. That’s not the kind of thing I would want
my
grandmother telling strangers, whether she happened to be back from the dead or not.

“Please remind him of that for me, young man, if you would be so kind.” She gave me a knowing look, eyes twinkling. If
that
doesn’t make him believe you’re telling the truth, then I don’t know what will.”

I repeated what she had said to me, pretty much word for word. The dumbfounded expression plastered across his face morphed at first into one of sheer disbelief, but I could see those mental wheels turning, grinding away slowly at first, but then picking up speed as he tried to figure out how I could
possibly
have known what I had just said to him. He finally arrived at the only possible conclusion that made any sense...

“You’ve been
stalking
me, you freaking
weirdo!
”

But then the tears came. Deep down, he had to know that I was telling the truth, had to feel that icy, otherworldly chill crawling across his skin. Perhaps that was why he was shivering on a warm Spring day. It would certainly explain the tears which were now spilling down his face in twin streams.

And just like that, the two-hundred pound muscle-bound bully was reduced to a quivering wreck. He turned tail and bolted, just like his followers had.

Gilda and I just stood there, watching him go. She shook her said slowly.

“He might be brash and confident on the outside,” the old lady said sorrowfully. “But on the inside, he’s still afraid. His father…look, you must understand that this isn’t an excuse for his behavior, young man. There is
never
an acceptable reason to bully somebody. But just between you and me, his father is a little too fond of his drink for my liking. Sometimes he gets…angry with Brandon. A little
rough,
if you follow my meaning. In fact, more than a little, if the truth be told.”

I nodded soberly.
So it was like that, was it?
That would explain why Brandon could be such a dick, why he always liked to exert some measure of power over any boy who was younger and weaker than he was. A tiny sliver of unexpected sympathy for him reared its head.
I guess even the bullies get bullied sometimes.

“I am sorry for whatever pain he may have caused you. If it is any comfort at all, I think that he feels every bit as frightened as you do.” Gilda sounded sad, as though she were passing judgment on the state of the world.

“He sure has a strange way of showing it,” I replied a bit too sharply, unable to keep the bitter edge out of my voice.

The old lady didn’t quite know how to respond to that, and I felt like a bit of a jerk myself for having said it. She seemed sweet and kind, and obviously meant well. We stood in awkward silence for a moment. Finally, she turned away wordlessly, and her semi-transparent body slowly faded away into the late-afternoon air.

“So long, and thanks for all the help,” I muttered.

To be honest, I knew that I was being ungrateful. Without the kindly old spirit’s help, I could well be sporting a few bruises by now that I hadn’t started out with this morning. But it was too late to thank her; she was probably already back home in the Summerland by now, the plane of existence that borders our own. A lot of the spirits of the newly-dead lived there, before graduating up to one of the higher spheres. Sometimes they came back to visit – usually to look in on people they had once cared about in our material world – and I was often able to see them, assuming that they actually
wanted
to be seen.

Just then, from the corner of my eye, I spotted movement across the street. Turning to look, I realized that I was being watched from what had been an empty sidewalk until just now.

Oh, crap,
I found myself thinking as my gut clenched in terror.
Why did it have to be
her?

CHAPTER TWO

There was no mistaking the slender, almost willowy girl that was standing on the other side of the street with a hand pressed to her open mouth.

The hoodie, jeans, and sneakers were no different than those worn by any of a hundred other girls her age, but there was no mistaking that shock of brilliant red hair. After all, I’d spent way too many hours daydreaming about her like a lovesick puppy.

Rebecca Page.
I’d have picked her out of any crowd, and not just because I had that epic crush on her; there was also the silver pentacle necklace that she always wore, and usually kept hidden underneath her t-shirt during the school day. She’d kept it on the down-low ever since Mrs. Murray had mistaken it for a symbol of the Devil and freaked out massively in Math class, instead of recognizing it for what it
really
was — Becky was a Wiccan, and so were her folks. The kids liked to gossip about
that
too, which was pretty much inevitable at a school like ours, where practically all of the kids went to church every Sunday whether they wanted to or not.

Becky was one of the few kids that
didn’t
treat me like dirt at school. I mean, yeah, being a nerd is considered pretty cool these days – a complete change from just ten years ago, or so I’m told. But I’m a nerd’s nerd, a kind of uber-super-nerd if you like, the sort of nerd that makes even your ordinary, everyday garden-variety nerd feel a little uncomfortable. I don’t
mean
to be, but I’m just wired that way. I really can’t help it.

So what’s the difference? Well, a nerd loves Marvel movies and maybe the comic books too – and maybe not – and has seen most of the superhero movies that come out. They can name a few Avengers; they probably quite like Black Widow (whether they’re a boy or a girl doesn’t matter —
everybody
crushes on the Widow); and without any effort, they can tell an
Firefly-
class ship from a Battlestar.

Me,
on the other hand…I can tell you which issue of which comic book that Black Widow first appeared in, and when it was published (issue 52, Marvel’s
Tales of Suspense,
April 1964 – go ahead, Google it if you don’t believe me. I’ll wait). I don’t have the exact
day
of publication, because even
my
pedantry has its limits, you know?

And as if my super-geek status wasn’t enough of a reason to make me an outsider, there’s also the whole “talking to the dead” thing.

Look, most people who claim to be able to do this…the so-called psychics, self-styled mediums, whatever they want to call themselves – I hate to burst your bubble, but it’s pretty much all BS. They’re either delusional (at best), wanting to be special little snowflakes in a big ugly world, or out-and-out frauds trying to make a quick buck out of the gullible and the bereaved. That last type are the worst, the absolute scum of the earth. I can’t even begin to tell you how angry they make me feel, and I’m not alone on that – most genuine Seers think they’re slime too.

Seers.
Short for
Deadseers.
That’s what we call ourselves, and each other, those of us who have one foot in this life and one in the life to come. Which
sounds
like it ought to be awesome, right? But trust me, it can be a bigger headache than you could possibly imagine sometimes.

Like right now, for example. Rebecca –
Becky
to her friends, or so I’d heard – was cool enough not to give me a hard time at school. She didn’t even seem to laugh at me behind my back, based on what I’d been hearing; and believe me, I
wanted
her to like me. I wanted to impress her. If that makes me sound shallow, then whatever, call me shallow. I really don’t care.

But ever since I’d made the mistake of letting one kid – just
one
other kid I thought I could trust – in on my little secret, I’d become a laughing stock. That juicy piece of gossip had spread like wildfire, and the name-calling came right on its heels.

“Hey, Chill – watch out! I SEE DEAD PEOPLE!” You know, top quality humor like that. Can you hear my eyes rolling already?
The Sixth Sense
is
so 1999,
guys.